The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. So this was what it was all about. "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. "Get a chair, Austin. And you have stolen my dagger.
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